Strangeways, Here We Come

Strangeways, Here We Come

I was going into town. To save the money needed to buy the record, I
was hitching. It was only six miles. The bus was an option, but I had
to buy The Smiths' 'Strangeways, Here We Come' (their last album,
according to N.M.E - the indie fans bible of the mid-eighties). July
was dragging into August without much enthusiasm. It was that kind of
summer afternoon where everything is waiting for a better day -
bleached grey light too bright for the apparently disinterested
landscape.
I walked out of the village towards the flyover, about a mile from our
house. Nothing was stopping. The traffic had already picked up speed
and was ready to accelerate onto the motorway. Only the cement-mixers
were slowing to turn off to the works off to my left; on the road,
there remained the lorries taking a short-cut through our village, the
'Mr Whippy' vans (how come there were so many in the village?), the
travelling salesmen, the slightly worried-looking mothers with kids;
nothing at all stopped.
I felt stupid. But I decided to walk on towards the next village,
through which ran a back road to the town. About a hundred yards from
Walton Bridge a car, a blue Cavalier, stopped. The bridge was a
metallic structure, only one car's width, resembling the one from 'A
Bridge Too Far', and the lights leading up to it were on red. I
presumed the Cavalier had stopped for the light, but then it began to
reverse slowly in my direction.
I ran to meet the car. It stopped about twenty yards ahead of me. The
door was already open. The driver greeted me with a smile:
' Where to?'
His voice had a business-like quality to it, like he'd done this a
thousand times before. Perhaps he had.
' Burton, or somewhere on the way?'
' Hop in.'
The lights changed and we set off.
' I'm not going to Burton, actually.' The driver suddenly
admitted.
' Oh.'
' I can take you as far as the Coton turning, if you want.'
' OK, that's fine.'
My first lift would take me the grand total of three miles.
I glanced over to the driver. He was in his mid-forties, dressed in an
expensive summer suit. I guessed he was self-employed, had done well in
the 'boom' of the eighties: a Tory, in other words (the hated enemy).
The lights changed and he drove slowly onto the one-lane bridge.

We had only just rounded the corner after the bridge when the first
question came. It was a bit like the barber-shop conversation; the
'Hitchers Chat':
' Live locally, do you?'
' Yeah, in Barton.'
' You ?'
' Just down the road ' He seemed pleased that he could talk about
himself. 'On the way to Coton, a little cottage there, renovated, veery
cosy... .'
He was about to say more, but instead turned to me, a grin lifting his
sagging cheeks.
' Get much sex in Barton, do you?'
Despite myself, I went bright red. Partly because I didn't, and partly
out of embarrassment for him. More than that, I thought, sex seemed so
out of place as we passed the leafy gardens of South Derbyshire's
Rotarians, Headmasters, Lawyers and M.D s.
' Er, well,' I tried to make light out of it, but I could feel myself
squirming.
' Ha, ha...I mean, what's the action like there?'
Then again, I thought, maybe this was a misjudged attempt at male
bonding? How was he to know he had picked a shy virgin who found
locker-room banter deeply embarrassing?
' Er, all right, I suppose.'
' Got a girlfriend, then?'
' No, then added (a little too) desperately,' not at the moment.'
' Ah, shy boy, are we then?'
I hated this. Not so much the personal questions, but the fact that he
was right.
' No..., I... .'
A few seconds passed, then the driver said;
' Off to the shops, then?'
' Er, yeah.'
' What you after?'
' Record.'
This was beginning to resemble one of those father-son attempts at
male bonding I despised so much. The man also seemed to be in
character, sighing before managing to ask:
' Which record?'
He made no attempt to sound interested in my forthcoming reply. I told
him anyway.
' The Smiths.' I sort out of spat it out. Morrisey (my teenage
ammunition), failed to make an impact.
' Strangeways, Here We Come. It's their new album, just out.'
' The Smiths? ' Then, half singing, I'm reeeally miseraable now..., ha,
ha, ha. He wants to cheer up a bit, that Morrisey fella!'
Angry at his mocking tone, I turned to look at him now, having spent
the previous five minutes staring straight ahead. I realised my hands
were almost stuck to my trousers and my legs were locked together. I
couldn't even bring myself to defend my favourite band. What a
wimp.
His eyes were on the road, but he noticed me looking at him. He seemed
pleased again, and, smiling, asked:
' Look, it's only half a mile to my turn-off. Why don't you come back
with me, then I'll take you to town after I've done what I need to do
at home?'
He was still smiling to himself.
I felt somehow relieved that my intuition had been proved right. Now
his intentions were out in the open, he was a little less
threatening.
' I don't think so. I'll get out at the turn-off.'
' Oh, that's a shame.'
He then changed gear via my right thigh. I tried to clamp my knees
together even more.
' You can have a shower, relax, you look a bit hot and
flustered.'
Another gear change, another stroke.
' No, really, I just want to go to Burton.'
' Come on, shy boy, don't you want a bit of fun, let your hair down a
bit.'
' No.'
I was scared now, again despite myself. I felt I was in control
before, but obviously wasn't. My hands shook, and I could feel the back
of my throat drying up.
' Oh, that's a shame. I thought we could have some fun together.'
Fourth to third (stroke), third to second (stroke) and we pulled up
beside the turn off to Coton.
' I'm getting out here.'
' As you wish.'
I fumbled for the handle. In a moment of panic, I thought he'd locked
me in, but no, I found it and jumped out of the car. I looked back at
him. He was no longer grinning. He looked mean, and his mouth was
twisted as he said:
' Bye, then. Don't know what you're missing.'
I said nothing, just pretended to look up and down the empty road for
some traffic.
He turned off and disappeared round a corner. I felt almost sorry for
him now. I imagined him arriving home, walking up the drive and looking
back at the road before going inside his 'cosy' cottage. My next
thought was that he could have been a serial killer (That would have
been too high a price to pay for The Smiths' latest). I shivered
slightly and waited for my next lift, looking forward to the safety of
the record shop, the certain purchase, and the bus journey home.